


Another Awakening

by verymerrysioux



Category: Dragon Quest Builders (Video Games), The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Gen, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22888216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verymerrysioux/pseuds/verymerrysioux
Summary: A happy-go-lucky builder, an amnesiac god of destruction, and a worn and weary hero are stranded on an island. It sounds like the start of a big joke, a catastrophic disaster, or an epic tale. It's all three, really.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	1. Isle of Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> So I got the idea because "Isle of Awakening" made me think of Link's Awakening, among other things haha. Not sure if I'll add more chapters to this, so I'm plopping it as complete for now. It was just a fun thing to write late at night.
> 
> No beta I brave through with no plan like Pastor Al and die like him too.

He wakes up with only the certainty of his name. Everything else is an empty abyss that’s filled with confusion as he sees his surroundings for the first time. 

He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know why he’s on wherever he is, he doesn’t know why the sky is a funny color, he doesn’t know why he knows that the sky is a funny color (was he in heaven?).

All he’s seen is sea, sand, wreckage, and corpses (it looks more like hell). He’s sure that most of them are corpses anyways, floating face-flat on water for a long time doesn’t seem like a very smart thing a person would do.

He hears something (someone?) and turns to find a girl struggling to climb up large rocks (someone!). She looks terrible, drenched in water and waifish, her hair bunched into two high ponytails (and they look droopier and soggier than the kelp washed up on shore). 

He calls out to her and she jumps back, staring at him with wide eyes. She’s holding up a stick with trembling hands, as if it will protect her from danger. 

It’s adorable in a pitiful sort of way, he doubts she could harm a slime. 

She says her name is Crea and she’s an apprentice builder. He doesn’t know what the last one means, but it must be good because she puffs her chest in pride as she tells him.

* * *

She wakes up cold and wet. Saltwater stings her eyes, clogs her nose, and fills her mouth. It takes her a minute to cough it all out and get her bearings.

She doesn't know where she is.

She has nothing on her besides the cypress stick she made on the ship, and given the bits of debris she sees on shore, the ship didn’t survive.

She takes a deep breath and looks around, surveying the area. It’s sand, sea, and rock for miles. She doesn’t see any sign of the crew. Not even the captain, and he’d been the nearest to her. There’s no sign of any life beyond the mollusks in the shallow water.

She’s all alone.

Well, this wasn’t what she envisioned when she started her official apprenticeship as a builder. But as the saying goes, you can’t make a bonfire without chopping some wood (and whacking some slimes). At least her knowledge would be handy in this situation!

“You can do this,” she tells herself. “If I can’t find a solution, then what kind of builder am I?” 

She walks, collecting a few driftwood while doing so (she could make a raft or some shelter, maybe?). She finds a treasure chest filled with kelp (weird). It would be nice to deconstruct the chest and keep it in her satchel, but she’s lost her hammer as well.

She hears a voice coming from the other side of a rocky outcrop and hope starts to bubble within her. She finds a sandy area and quickly digs away using her stick. If it were any other day, she’d be embarrassed by how tiring it is to dig out _sand_. But she was in a slave ship for who knows how long, eating only kelp that the captain deigned to give her (which was a lot admittedly, but one can only go for so long with just kelp), and she just survived a shipwreck. So given all that, it’s amazing she still has the strength to stand.

She meets a boy named Malroth. He looks the same age as her, maybe older (he’s taller and bigger than her, though most people are). He’s intimidating, with his fierce red eyes and bulky physique, but he has the same quirky energy the monster crew had. So she lets herself be dragged by him, listening to him chatter about something gruesome he wants to show.

He shows her corpses of the captives and crew members.

Okay then?

“So?” Malroth grins. “Is this gruesome or what?”

Both if she’s being honest, because what? Who gets excited about dead bodies and shows it to people? Maybe it’s a guy thing she doesn’t get? 

She checks to see if they’re truly dead.

One of them isn’t a corpse thankfully, a girl with pink hair and a side ponytail. She screams and runs away the moment she wakes up and looks at them, blabbering about pirates along the way.

Okay then.

“There she goes,” Malroth comments, staring at the pink-haired girl running up a hill. “She’s got a mouth on her, hasn’t she?” He looks at her and jerks his thumb. “There’s only one way to shut her up for good, mind if I do the honors?”

“She had a life and death experience, don’t be mean,” she scolds, gently prodding at the slime. No response. “I wish I could give all of you proper burials but-oh!” 

Malroth is beside her. “What?”

“I spot someone over there!” She points at another outcrop. It was easy to miss, but she can definitely see a small figure lying on the rocks. “They could be alive, we have to check!” She runs, not stopping to catch her breath.

“Don’t just rush in!”

She skids to a halt in front of the person, almost tripping over them. It’s a boy dressed in green. She looks him over. Blond hair, tan skin, and pointed ears. He’s wearing clothes similar to the builder uniforms she’s seen, though missing a few accessories. Maybe they were washed away? Was he a builder? She doesn’t remember seeing him on the ship. 

Then again, she doesn’t remember Malroth there either.

She kneels down and reaches out for his neck, aiming to check his pulse. She screams as a hand grabs her wrist. She finds the bluest eyes she’s ever seen stare at her.

“Uh.” She wriggles her wrist, but the grip on it is tight. “H-hello, I’m Crea, an apprentice builder. I saw you lying here and was checking if you were-” Not dead is probably a horrible thing to say. “-okay.”

He stares at her.

“We’re not pirates?” She tries.

He blinks slowly.

“Please let go of my wrist,” she requests, shaking her captive hand. 

“I could take care of him,” Malroth says.

She suspects he doesn’t mean that he’ll make sure he’s healthy and whole. “Let’s have that as... the last plan.”

The boy huffs and lets go of her hand, slowly getting up. He looks at her, then at Malroth, then at the expanse of sand, rock, and sea.

“Where am I?” He asks, frowning.

She shrugs. “Neither of us know, we woke up here.” She gives him a smile. “I’m Crea and this is Malroth.”

“... Link,” he says.

“Link,” she repeats, tilting her head. “Are you and Malroth related?”

He blinks.

“What?” Malroth sputters. “Where did that come from?”

“You both have pointed ears.”

“Well, you and Ms. Screams-A-Lot have rounded ears! You don’t see me assuming you’re related!”

“I’m not, by the way,” Link answers, blinking some more.

“I almost forgot about her!” She gasps, running back to where the pink-haired girl is. “We have to find her, she could be hurt!”

Both boys stare at the cloud of dust where she once stood.

“Is she always this energetic?” Link asks.

* * *

Moments later, after calming the pink-haired girl down and convincing her that no, they were not pirates, and no, neither Malroth nor Link were demons (“Pointed ears are common where I’m from,” Link says. “I’m one hundred percent human.”). She introduces herself as Lulu and demands several things from Crea when she figures out she’s a builder.

Crea accepts the demands happily, Malroth not so much. 

“Who does she think she is?” He grumbles, punching away a slime while Link picks up the newest slime corpse. “She’s not even going to help, she’s just staying in the shack that you built!”

“She could be more polite,” Link agrees, squeezing the slime and collecting the oil. “I’ve met royalty with better manners in even less desirable places like sewers.”

“It’s not like she’s wrong with the things we need,” Crea points out, hacking away a couple of weeds. “She’s stranded like us, it wouldn’t hurt to give her some kindness.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to be pushovers just because she’s a walking sob story,” Malroth sighs. “I’ve only met you two today and I know you guys are utter doormats.”

“Why am I included in that?” Link asks.

“You’re the one that can remember her demands word per word.”

“It’s convenient.”

Crea shrugs. “I’m a builder, if I’m given a chance to make things that help people, that’s me doing my job.”

Link hums. “What exactly is a builder?”

Crea’s explanation is long enough for her to build a bonfire and cook a few scallywinkles.

* * *

“Runes,” Link murmurs, touching the workbench and feeling the soft thrum of magic as he traces the carved etchings. “You use magic to build?”

“Of course!” Crea laughs. “Did you think I did all of this without magic? Goddess, that would take so much time!”

“I’ve never thought about using magic for…” He thinks about his adventures, the magic items he wielded to survive dungeons and fight monsters. “Everyday things.”

“Not everyone can be a bigshot hero.” She grins. “Fireballs are cool and all, but sometimes a warm hearth is all people need.”

He looks at the small shack and the straw beds Crea was making, then at the bonfire that had a few more scallywinkles and kelp over it. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I agree.”

* * *

Malroth tries his hand at building on the workbench and it explodes on his face. Link takes that as a challenge and makes a bigger explosion. It wipes the disappointed look off Malroth’s face as both of them try to see who can make the biggest explosion.

Crea kicks them out of her workstation (it didn’t have any walls so she was just kicking them a few feet away from the bench), telling them if they were so keen on being destructive, they could use that energy in gathering more wood from the scattered remnants of the ship.

They have the decency to look sheepish at least.

She makes another cypress stick for Link and an oaken club for Malroth. They both try out their new weapons by sparring with each other.

“Boys,” Lulu grumbles on her straw bed, trying to sleep. Crea giggles and pokes the bonfire some more, cooking the last of the scallywinkles they collected.

Minutes later, she has enough food to last all of them for tomorrow and stores it in her satchel. She’s about to hit the hay (pun intended) until she sees Malroth stiffen.

Link eyes him. “Monsters?”

“A lot stronger than the slimes we’ve seen,” Malroth says, bringing out his club. “I feel them west on the coast, we should check it out.”

“What?” Crea blinks, though she’s already getting her stick. “Why?”

“This is a chance to try out my new club! And a chance for you to practice with your stick as well.” Malroth grins. “Come on, you’ll never learn until you actually do it!”

So they go west and they find monsters, a fat rat that was leading a bunch of slimes (weird). They fight them. Well, it was mostly Link and Malroth, she occasionally helps by whacking the monsters and distracting them enough for the boys to finish them off.

She huffs, splattered in slime and fur (and sweaty as heck to boot), but feels elated. She’s never had to fight so many monsters before, that’s not what builders do. It’s an accomplishment, considering the only fighting lessons she had was with a bunch of skeletons in a slave ship.

She turns to both of them, a wide smile on her face, and holds up both her hands. Malroth immediately highfives her right hand with a cheer, Link snorts and follows suit with her left.

“I have no idea why I did that,” Malroth says, looking at his hand in utter confusion. “I just had the irresistible urge to slap your hand?”

Laughter fills the cave as Crea explains the intricacies of highfives. It’s the first time they’ve seen Link crack a smile that wasn’t tinged with sardonic humor.

* * *

He wakes up on a soft bed of dry grass with the scent of the sea in the air. He glances to the side to find the other three still sleeping. It seems during the night, Crea found Malroth’s arm to be an optimal pillow, hugging it and drooling all over his shoulder. Lulu is so far away from her straw bed, he wonders how she even got there. Malroth snores, not loudly, but it’s enough to see the tiny fangs peeking out from his mouth.

He tiptoes around them, quietly leaving their little shack and taking a short stroll on the shore.

He’s on an unknown island with a bunch of strangers who tell him places he’s never heard of (and in turn, they have no idea of the places he tells them, not even Hyrule). He has zero items beyond his pouch, his power bracelet, and the stick Crea made.

It’s painfully familiar, and he’s not sure what to do with that. He wonders if this is a drea—No, stop that. They feel solid and real. 

And yet, he’s never heard of Cantlin or Rippleport or the Children of Hargon. Lulu and Crea have never seen humans with pointed ears despite it being a common sight in Hyrulean territories. Malroth has amnesia, so he’s no help at all (and given his clothes, he doubts he’s from Hyrule).

He’s never had the same kind of adventure twice, so he could rely on that? 

He lets out a breath, humming the soothing melody _she_ was fond of singing (he both loathes and loves that song). He looks up, he hasn’t seen any seagulls so far, but maybe they weren’t native here.

Before he can muse further on his situation, a shrill shriek pierces the air and he hears Malroth yelp. He turns and runs back to the shack, hearing Lulu’s angry shouts and Malroth’s snappish replies. 

He hasn’t had the same adventure twice, he repeats. He could rely on that. The goddesses are merciful on that part.


	2. Furrowfield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crea learns to build more, Link starts hoarding more, and Malroth makes sure none of them dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a caveat, most of my DQ knowledge is from googling, because DQB2 is my first and only DQ game I've played lmao. I've played several LoZ games (never finished 'em tho) and read several of the manga, and those two sources is what I'll be using for Link's background. 
> 
> Also I tend to take whatever I want in canon and frankenstein it.
> 
> No beta I die like a certain pastor.

Malroth, Link finds, becomes the voice of reason in their ragtag group. 

“Lulu, slow down!” He barks, climbing up the stairs as Lulu sprints towards where the mysterious creature disappeared. “We shouldn’t rush towards something that could _break a wall of rock with just one swing!”_

“He stole my scallywinkle!”

“We have a ton more here!” He throws his arms up when Lulu keeps running, shouting about thieves. “You know what, forget it. That hammerhood probably knows a thing or two about this island. Following him may give us clues.” He looks around and frowns. “Where’s Crea?”

Link jerks his thumb behind him. “She’s been staring at the braziers.”

That she was, all the while scribbling furiously on her book.

Malroth groans. 

‘Well, he’s the voice of reason,’ Link thinks, observing him pull Crea away from the brazier. ‘But it doesn’t mean people have to listen to the voice.’

If Link had listened to his own voice of reason every time, he wouldn’t have gone through half the crap he had to deal with.

“I bet there are secret caves in this mountain,” he muses, eyeing a flat wall of rock. “If we had bombs, it would be easy to whittle things away.”

He’s grabbed by the tunic and dragged away.

* * *

It turns out that the creature is the guardian spirit of the island. 

The Isle of Awakening, a land that was once a builder's paradise. 

The spirit goes on about how time and neglect had worn away the creations, leaving only a few pieces of what was once an age of builders. 

He has a request for Crea: to repair the old temple. Part of it anyways, Link agrees with Malroth that repairing the whole thing is too much.

They all watch Crea dart around the ruins of the temple, looking at each unbroken block and brazier with intense scrutiny. She gets her book from her satchel and starts flipping through the pages, muttering furiously with herself. 

She closes her book with a satisfied huff and takes a deep breath.

“I’ve never made a blueprint before,” she says, bringing out her quill. “I’ve only seen other builders do it.” She grins. “Here goes!” 

Her other hand is a flurry of signs and motions, and she starts _floating_. She quickly draws lines, dots, and circles in the air, and they all float over to the temple and give the floor a soft glowing outline. She lets out a whoop of joy as the outline shines brighter and the floor is covered in glowing squares.

Link and Malroth gape at the display of magic, while Lulu claps in delight, commenting she’s impressed that Crea could make a blueprint on the fly.

“What’s with you?” Lulu asks, raising her brow. “Malroth I get being surprised, but have you never seen a builder at work before? Is magic rare where you’re from?”

“We have magic users,” Link answers. “But they do things like healing, shielding, attacking, making potions and whatnot. Not-” He gestures at Crea lifting large mason blocks with one hand and placing them on the glowing squares. “-that.”

“Huh.” Lulu wrinkles her nose. “Must take ages to get a castle done.”

* * *

She fixes the temple and gets a hammer and the whole island as thanks. She’s vibrating from excitement the moment the hammerhood tells her she can build to her heart’s content.

Lulu and Malroth argue about the name of the future island kingdom, bouncing between Lulutopia and Empire of Evisceration. 

Link thinks both names are equally horrible.

“Now-now-now, this is Crea’s island,” the hermit chides. “She gets to choose-choose-choose what to call it.”

“I vote Crearule and be done-done-done with it,” Link says. 

Crea lets out a surprised laugh and shoves him playfully.

* * *

They all agree that exploring other islands, finding materials, and recruiting people is the best course of action. 

The hermit suggests Furrowfield, as it’s known for its fruit(-fruit-fruit)ful farms. 

Link wonders why all of them are quick to build a new home rather than find a way back. 

Nobody talks about why the slave ship took them or how to get to Cantlin or Rippleport or wherever they came from. 

They don’t question Malroth on what he can remember.

Even the captain takes ferrying a couple of strangers to a land he’s never heard of in stride.

As they’re busy packing and unpacking Crea’s satchel, he looks at each of them. 

Lulu lost her parents, Malroth lost his memories, and he (comes back to an empty house in an idyllic town that makes him itch and itch and itch until he wants to scratch his skin off and scream) lost his old life.

They don't have any reason to try and go back.

He wonders what Crea lost.

* * *

Furrowfield stinks, literally and figuratively. 

Malroth isn't off the mark when he said it smelled like a bunch of apples left to rot. The air is stale and moldy, like it's been used and reused so many times that there wasn't a single ounce of freshness in it anymore.

Link doesn't think it could get worse, then he got off the dock and stepped on the soil with a loud squelch.

Walking on the earth is like walking on a floor of pounded raw meat; their boots making unpleasant slapping sounds and clumps of slimy mud were starting to cake on their soles.

There's no flora to speak of, unless they count the moss, the withered weeds, and the sickly trees. 

"There's nothing fruitful about this place." He looks at his muddy boots in disgust. "Unless the meaning of fruit changed to slime while I was unconscious."

"I see some fruit over there!" Malroth points at a pink bulbous thing. It reminds Link of garlic, if garlic was made out of flesh. "There's even plants surrounding it, let's check it out!" 

He runs towards the thing.

Crea squints her eyes. "I don't think that's fruit."

"Do fruit pulsate where you're from?" 

"No?"

"Then it's probably not."

Malroth proves their theory by having the pink thing explode on his face, the gas it emits kills the surrounding plants and stinks up the air even further. His face scrunches up in disgust as the gas fades away.

"You should listen to your own advice about not rushing in," Link says when they go back to the dock so that Malroth can wash off the stinky gunk that stuck all over him. 

Crea is inspired enough to make a soap recipe, exclaiming her excitement when Malroth tackles Link to the ground, getting the disgusting gunk on his tunic as well. 

When she sees the mischievous gleam in those red eyes, arms stretched out in the fakest friendly hug gesture she’s ever seen, she threatens not to make any soap for them if they come close.

“Why am I included in the threat?” Link complains, washing away the stink as best as he could.

* * *

Malroth nicknames Rosie “Screams-A-Lot Two” when it’s her screams that catch their attention.

Then she screeches loudly at Link once she’s done introducing herself and talking about Furrowfield Farm. 

Malroth and Link wince.

Crea admits she's close to screaming too. 

“Link,” she says, eyes wide. “Why are your hands covered in blood?”

Rosie nods furiously, hiding behind Crea.

Link looks down at his hands. "It’s not mine," he assures, which doesn’t assure her at all. He wipes away the blood using his tunic. “It was the ape things.”

“Did you butcher them?” Malroth looks over Link and stares in awe at the corpses down below. “They’re furless.”

Both Crea and Rosie are grateful that the cliff they’re on blocks the view of whatever Malroth is looking down in fascination.

“I figured the hide would be useful for later.” Link scrunches his face. “They also had a ridiculous amount of tree bark for some reason too.”

“How about the meat?”

“Too tough,” Link answers, wiping off more blood on his tunic. Crea's tempted to craft a towel for him. “Not really worth harvesting.”

“Can we go to the farm now?” Rosie begs, looking as green as her overalls. “Please?”

* * *

They kill some slimes and a few mauluscs along the way. With Malroth whacking any monster attacking them and Link methodically checking each corpse and looting them, Crea’s satchel is filled with plenty of oil and some medicinal leaves.

Link says he sometimes finds the leaves inside the mauluscs. Which is gross and she's dubious about using them.

Maybe when she's desperate. 

“Were you part of an adventurer guild or something?” Crea asks once she’s swallowed down her disgust and gotten used to Link’s looting. She knows adventurers are the go-to for getting monster parts, and Link’s actions tells her he’s experienced with it.

“Or something," he answers. “I’ve done a lot of odd jobs that needed me to go hunting. I’ve found it never hurts to bring a few extra monster bits." He gives a dry smile. “I have to admit, it’s a lot easier with Malroth keeping me from getting attacked while I search.”

Malroth whacks away an incoming spitball from a maulusc.

“A fighter, a gatherer, and a builder,” Rosie giggles, adjusting her glasses. “I never thought that would mix, but you three do it well! You’re like the ultimate sin team.”

Crea blinks. “Don’t you mean dream team?”

“Oh, no, anything that helps the act of creation is always bad,” Rosie says matter-of-factly, giving her a don’t-be-a-silly-goose look. “If the Children of Hargon found you gathering materials for building-” She shudders. “...-Anyways, the farm is just a few feet away, come on!”

As Rosie runs towards what look like town ruins, Crea stops and stares at her retreating back, opening and closing her mouth wordlessly. 

“I take it that’s not normal where you’re from?” Link asks.

“No,” she says vehemently, eyes wide. “Definitely not.”

* * *

“Welcome to Furrowfield Farm!” Rosie says, stretching her arms with a flourish. “The greenest garden in all the lands!”

The three look at each other, then at the stinky empty plot of land, then at Rosie.

“No offense.” Malroth gestures at Link's blood and mud-stained clothes. “But Link is greener than this whole farm."

"It's barely a garden," Link agrees.

* * *

The day is spent learning the basics of farming and figuring out the necessities the farm lacks.

“All.” Is Crea’s conclusion. “It needs _all_ . Food, water, shelter, _farm tools that aren’t sad and rusty_.” She’s on the verge of pulling her pigtails. “The place they’re sleeping isn’t even a room! It doesn’t have any beds at all! It just has a door! You don’t need a door for sleeping!”

They all look at the obnoxiously red door.

“I’m surprised it can stand without support,” Link says.

“Maybe the mud stuck it in place?” Malroth tilts his head. He laughs as Crea pulls her pigtails and an incomprehensible string of words. “Look at it this way, this means you can build to your heart’s content!”

Crea sighs. “Oh, I’m excited about that.” She takes out her book and lists down the things the farm needs. “I’m just wondering how they haven’t died from starvation or monsters if this is what they were working with. Our shack in the Isle is luxurious in comparison.”

“You’d be surprised how you can survive with sheer force of will alone,” Link mutters.

* * *

Link volunteers to do the other mundane tasks so Crea can focus on building “Some semblance of a shelter, goddess knows what’s on this disgusting soil and I refuse to sleep on it.”

He plants the rest of the seeds on the tilled soil and helps Rosie water them. He makes a mental note to tell Crea that the farm probably needs an easier source of water, as he had to pull Rosie to keep her from slipping and falling when they climbed up the rocky hill that had a spring of muddy water.

He looks at the remains of what was once a town. There were a few things that were intact, old but useable. But the rest were too dilapidated to be of any use beyond extra wood for a fire.

… Or building.

He looks at Malroth. He's been restless with doing nothing this whole time. He tried to help, which only ended up with a lot of broken tools and blocks.

He brings out his cypress stick. “What do you say we do a big sweep of the farm?” He asks, waving the stick towards a bunch of fencing. “Don’t worry about the mess you’ll make, just focus on breaking as much of the debris as possible. I’ll handle the cleanup.”

Malroth perks up, bringing out his club and dashing towards where Link is pointing and swinging at the fences. He breaks a couple of ivy while doing so.

Link picks up the ivy and shoves it in his pouch. It could be useful, it could be trash, better safe than sorry. He’s kept things that looked more worthless. His pouch has the space for it anyways.

(He probably should have mentioned that to Crea in the Isle when she was deliberating on what to bring and leave. She seems just as much as a hoarder as him.)

It takes them an hour to clear the farm of old wooden floorboards, fences, weeds, and crawling ivy. They also make a game of chopping off the sickly trees, finding out who could make the most lumber the fastest. A club and a stick are horrible tools for cutting wood, but it’s a way for Link to hack away on a thing with no consequences.

“Okay, I’m calling dodongo dung, how are you making your wood look perfectly cut?” He demands, wiping off the sweat on his brow. “You’re using magic, aren’t you? That’s the only explanation on how you can slice things with a goddess-damn _club_.”

Malroth puffs up his chest and opens his mouth, then pauses and frowns. “I have no idea.”

Right, he has amnesia. Hylia, even he’s forgotten that.

* * *

“How long do you think 'til she sees it?” Malroth asks, watching in fascination as Crea keeps her eyes on whatever she was making on the workbench, reaching in the chest next to her without glancing.

She gets the ivy that Link placed moments ago. She looks at it, turns it side to side, and with a few flicks from her fingers, the ivy unravels into multiple strands and braids itself to become a coil of cord.

She puts it on the workbench and reaches into the chest again.

She pulls out a wooden pole. "Oh, nice." She pulls out another one. “This will come in handy for the cabbage patch.” She puts them back.

“She still hasn’t noticed.”

“Give it a few minutes," Link says.

He predicts wrong.

She notices the glowing heart-shaped orbs of light hours later when she actually looks away from her bench, yelping as they float towards her and sink into her skin. Batting them away does nothing.

Link gets up from the straw bed he was napping on and looks at Crea's flailing. “So that’s not normal either?”

“No! Why would it be?!”

* * *

Malroth claps, looking at the new wooden shack in amazement. “You went all out on the room, it’s big enough to cram that workbench too!”

Crea blushes. “It’s just a place to sleep.”

“That you made out of nothing!”

“No.” She brings up both her hands. “You can’t make things out of nothing, it’s all thanks to you two that I had enough material to work with.” She gives a wide grin. “This is a team effort.”

Their highfives contrast to the soft applause of Rosie, Perry, and Bonanzo.

* * *

Rosie asks them to ring the bell.

When she tells them that it's an old relic of a builder, Crea examines the bell closely.

She frowns. "I don't see anything special with it."

"Maybe it'll change when you ring it?" Link suggests.

"Maybe…"

"Ring it."

"What if something bad happens?"

"That's what healing items are for," Link tells her solemnly. 

Malroth looks at him with mild alarm.

Crea makes some medicinal herbs just in case.

* * *

She eventually rings the bell.

The three see the wave of energy that bursts out of the bell the moment Crea strikes it with her hammer. The sharp gong resonating deep in their hearts.

For Crea, she's filled with so much inspiration that she's afraid she'll pop. And then knowledge starts pouring in her head and she knows she'll pop if she doesn't do something.

She takes out her book and quickly draws as much schematics that she can think up. 

For Link, faded memories begin to surface. Crisp and clear as if it happened moments ago. The sweet smell of baked apples on an open fire, the gruff rumblings of his uncle as he taught him to care for the farm, the kind smiles given to him by his neighbors.

He remembers the skills he had before he became a hero.

For Malroth, nothing happens. Nothing he notices. There is a small flame within him, ignited by the spark of a builder.

(Soon, a voice croons, soft and weak and gleeful. Create more, little builder.)

He claps and cheers with the other villagers, not understanding why they all gathered around the bell with grins that almost rival Crea's dopey one, but it beats the gloom that permeated into their beings.

Plus, seeing Crea posing with her book is hilarious.

* * *

They run out of seeds and good soil, so Rosie brings out one last thing to plant.

"It's something my sister kept," she says, giving it to Crea. "It's a plant, I think. I didn't know what to do with it, and I was scared I'd screw up and kill it if I tried anything."

"It looks a lot like those spoilspores," Malroth observes. "Except small and blue and less…"

"Fleshy?" 

"Yeah."

"I think something great will happen if you plant it!" Rosie insists. "I was right about the bell after all!"

They all look down at the blue bulb on Crea's hands.

Crea grins. "Well, when in doubt, have a lot of medicinal herbs, right?" She trots towards the last good soil and plants the mysterious bulb.

"It's bomb everything," Link corrects. "But that works too." 

They all look at Link.

"What exactly did you do before getting shipwrecked?" Malroth asks, eyebrow raised.

Before Link can answer, a monster barges into the farm and demands why they've committed the sinful act of farming.

He has to admit that the monsters are a lot more interesting than Ganon's minions.

* * *

"Is it normal for people to gain heart containers like this?" Link asks, stabbing the last iron ant with his stick.

"Heart containers?" Crea repeats.

"It's, ah-" How does one describe something so common in Hyrule there doesn't need a description? "Blessings? Containers contain life?"

He gets blank stares.

"Heart containers make you durable." He wracks his brain for words. "The more hearts you have, the less chances of you dying. If this was us back in the Isle, we would have barely survived the mauluscs." He gestures at the dead ants around the abandoned windmill. "Now we power through them plus a large army of ants like it's nothing. Is this normal?"

"I… I don't know." Crea looks at Malroth. "You said you've felt stronger, right?"

Malroth nods. "You don't bruise as much."

"And I'm sure I never healed this fast." Link brings up his arm that was littered with bite marks minutes ago. There was barely any on his skin. "So, not normal?"

"Probably?" She furrows her brow. "I know adventurers get strong really fast, but that's through potions and items." She's heard stories of the Scions of Erdrick, but they were a unique class of warriors.

"Maybe it's something in the land?"

They all look at Brittney.

"Don't look at me, I have zero clue on why you're Like That," she says, putting her hands up and shrugging. "I assumed it was, like, Builder Things, you know?"

And yet another odd thing that none of them can explain. Fantastic.

* * *

"How do you get these containers?" Malroth asks.

"It depends," Link says, scratching his head. "You find them or they find you."

"Find you?"

"They're blessings, gifts from the goddess." He shrugs. "They're hard to get." Apparently. "So it's odd that they just… grow within us." That's the best that he can describe it. "Maybe this world's deity likes us."

Maybe they know what's in store for them.

Malroth laughs. "Maybe! I'd give you two wimps more life if I could!" He tilts his head. "Wait, does that mean you have those containers?"

"Some." He rubs his hand. "A little more than Crea's, a lot less than yours." Give or take, he's not that good in estimating hearts, not like Zelda.

"Is that a lot?"

"No." Not really, not for him.

* * *

Crea makes them a stone sword and axe. Malroth loves the axe, giving it a few swings and thanking her (he keeps the club though). Link gives her a grateful smile and puts the stick in the chest.

"Would be nice if we had metal to work with," Link muses. "They're easier to enchant. Temper it with gold and whisper a few blessings and you could make a strong magic blade."

"You know how to forge weapons?" Crea asks.

He laughs. "No, but I've seen enough ways to strengthen one." He twirls his sword. "Who knows? You could forge a legendary sword of your own."

* * *

The farmers scream in terror when they bring Wrigley. And then scream in delight when the worm cleanses the field. There's even more screaming (and sobbing) when they see the newly planted seeds start to sprout.

It's a bad day for Link's and Malroth's eardrums.

A "No Screaming, Only Clapping" policy is made for the sake of their pointy-eared companions. 

Crea builds a sign to remind the folks, something big and unique so people will notice. 

Link thinks it's a bit much, Malroth loves that it's a carved fat rat.

* * *

Rosie says Clayton is a skilled farmer. Link isn't sure having the uncontrollable urge to till the earth is an actual skill in as much as a primal instinct ingrained in his being.

That’s like saying he's a skilled pot breaker.

Well, they can't complain about another extra hand. No matter how rude he is.

“And it has to be small! There’s no use wasting all that space-”

“That’s a stupid plan,” Link states bluntly, overhearing Clayton’s request and seeing Crea’s pinched look. 

Clayton sputters. “Excuse me?”

Link raises an eyebrow. “If you like it small, that’s fine. Go ahead and make your own.” He crosses his arms. “But the barn is going to be used by all of the farmers, not just you, and a small room isn’t going to cut it.”

“You’re not a builder!”

“Neither are you,” he says dryly. “So who are you to make asinine demands?”

“A small barn would be a bad idea," Crea says. She shrinks under Clayton’s glare. "Ah, uh, I mean…"

She feels Link clasp her shoulder and takes another breath. “We’ll need a bigger barn for bigger fields, is what I mean. And, er, it's better to plan ahead?”

Clayton is about to say something else, but Malroth walks behind Crea and gives him an angry glare. “Fine,” he sniffs. “Just make a barn, the farmers need it regardless of its size.” He turns and leaves, going back to tilling the soil.

The trio stare at his retreating back.

“For a devout believer of Hargon’s crap, he sure likes giving orders to a ‘sinful’ builder,” Malroth comments. He turns to Crea. “Remember what I said back in the Isle? You shouldn’t be a doormat over people.”

She tugs on her pigtail. “He’s right about needing a barn.”

“Not a small one,” Link snorts. “Sometimes you have to get the courage to say no, Crea.”

“That’s rich coming from you!” Malroth laughs. “You’re as much as a pushover as her, errand boy!”

Link gives a crooked smile. “The less you say no, the more the demands pile up, until you can’t take the weight anymore. I found out the hard way.” 

* * *

It's at the church ruins that Link sees the goddess statue.

A ghost requests that they repair the church in exchange for some seeds. The altar specifically. They complain that the Children of Hargon had desecrated it, replacing it with their deity.

"It's very flamboyant," Crea says, looking at the violet table, blue-flamed sconces, and eery looking statue.

Goddess, she's polite even towards her enemies tastes. "Just say it's gaudy."

"I kinda like it!" Malroth pipes in.

"Well, I dooOOon't!" The ghost howls, appearing next to Malroth and making him jump. "And I want it gooOOOoone!"

"Alright, alright! Yeesh, you don't need to shout," Malroth huffs, hands covering his ears. He looks around. "Maybe we can use the stuff that's here?"

"I'd rather not make a goddess statue from scratch," she agrees.

The ghost appears next to Link. "There may be one leeEEEft behind thoOOse craaAates!" 

Link winces. "Please tell me that's not your indoor voice."

"What dooOO yoOOouuU meeaAn?"

"That's a yes," Malroth grumbles.

* * *

"So this is your goddess statue," Link murmurs, tracing the stone-carved robes of the lady in prayer. "It's different from ours." Yet similar. "What's her name?"

"Rubiss," Crea answers immediately, throwing out the last of the crates. She pauses and kneels down, clasping her hands. "The goddess of creation."

"Lofty title," he notes.

Crea stands up and pats her skirt. "She created Alefgard, it's only fair she gets that title."

"Alefgard," he repeats. The name draws a blank. "Yet another thing different." He closes his eyes and crosses his arms, letting out a soft breath. The places, the monsters, even the deities. All different.

Another reminder that he's in another world entirely (again).

Malroth and Crea look at each other, concern in their eyes. "What's your goddess like?" Malroth asks.

"I'm curious too," Crea says. "It would pass the time while I fix this."

He looks at the altar. "You don't need help?"

"Psh, this is child's play for me!" She grins, jumping on the castle blocks and reaching for the sconces. "So just relax and tell us a story."

Even the ghost looks interested, floating closer to him.

"Well," he starts. "Well, ah, most of the ones I know are, er… in song form." He scratches his cheek. "I'm not the best."

"We won't laugh," Malroth insists.

"You don't have to sing, telling it is okay too," Crea assures.

"No, I want to," he says. How long has it been since he's sung these old songs? Would he have thought about it if Crea hadn't rung the bell?

There was a time before Ganon. Sweet, happy times. When his dreams weren't always visions. Fears. Nightmares. When he dreamed better dreams.

Can he dream better?

"I want to," he repeats softly. He takes a deep breath and hums, starting a familiar melody.

There are no names for the ancient goddesses. Forgotten as time passed. But their tales live on, for how can one forget the golden mothers? The creators of this world? 

(There is no goddess of creation, for creation in Hyrule was shared by three)

He sings about the goddess of power, the eldest, who shaped the world. Using her scorching fire to forge the rich red earth and her colossal strength to form the mountains and chasms.

(And perhaps he adds more to the story, perhaps he sees Malroth straighten in interest.)

She is earth and fire, rocks and magma. Unmoving, raging, powerful.

She is fury (destruction).

And through her fury, she created the land.

He sings about the goddess of wisdom, who blessed the world with law. Pouring her wisdom unto the earth. 

If the goddess of power used fury, then the goddess of wisdom used love. For she knew what this world will become, knew what they would make, knew the potential of this chaotic void.

And she loved every bit of it.

She gave order to the chaos. Light to darkness. Kindness to malice. Matter to emptiness. She made sure there was a balance of things. 

Opposites but not really, forces that complemented each other. That worked well together. A cycle of creation and destruction to keep the world going.

(Crea stops for a moment.)

That was her law.

He sings about the goddess of courage, the youngest, who gave life to the world. Breathing out the essence of her soul into the barren earth and empty seas. 

She sees her elder sister's work and explores every mountain and cave and chasm that was formed. She rolls around the barren fields, laughing in glee as she feels the familiar warmth of her eldest sister.

She sees the oceans and lakes and rivers her other sister has made to balance the fire and dives in. Swimming as deep as she could.

Wherever she goes, her life-giving wind follows. Trees and flowers, animals of different kinds. Living things, tiny and large, gentle and savage, all form where she goes.

And she goes everywhere. She looks and peeks and jumps and dives. Courage fuels her and nothing is untouched by her hands.

(He feels the phantom warmth of the triforce on his skin.)

He sings about their final blessing. The last thing they create. The Triforce, pyramids of light imbued with their divine essence.

His throat feels dry when his story is done. The altar restored (how long has it been restored?) and he realizes that Crea and Malroth (and the ghost) have been listening intently this whole time.

His face heats up as they give him applause. 

He's relieved when monsters arrive and start attacking them.

* * *

It was bound to happen, he's surprised it took so long. It seems his luck finally ran out.

He falls on the wet sticky ground, breathing hard. There's a high pitch ringing that smothers whatever Crea is saying (he thinks it's Crea, the same way he thinks the purple and orange blob behind her is Malroth).

He ignores the throbbing in his head with the experience of having felt (worse) this before and tries to remember what items they have.

A couple of grilled greens and bread, some wooden roofing Crea salvaged in a dilapidated barn, seeds, torches, straw beds.

He exhales. They ran out of medicinal herbs hours ago.

"...-roth!" He hears. "...-osing blood, we-..."

There's no fairies in this world, no potions either. He's always relied on those to keep going.

He's lifted on someone's back. Blearily, he sees strands of long blonde hair swaying in front of him.

"...-the naviglobe!" He knows that's Malroth. "Port to the closest one at the farm! I'll handle the monsters!"

"M'fine," he mumbles. They've gone so far, they shouldn't waste time and-

"Shut up!" Crea snaps, her voice trembling. "You're one step close to a coffin, you bleeding idiot."

He imagines Crea shoving him in a coffin and dragging him around and giggles. That would be a new way to get to places.

* * *

"How long are you going to stay mad at me?" He asks. Malroth had been giving him the cold shoulder since he was brought back to the farm.

He gets silence.

"Malroth."

More silence.

"You're on my bed."

"It's a shared bedroom," Malroth says, back still turned. "Nobody has claims on the beds."

He's not wrong. "I always sleep there though."

"Too bad."

He looks up and mentally recites the first verse of the Hyrulean Knights creed. He lets out a breath. "What did you want me to do? Let the orc stab you?"

Malroth turns and snarls, fiery red eyes glaring at him. "It's better than you almost dying," he hisses. "I could have taken that hit!"

"You don't know that."

A scoff. "You think I'm weak?"

Link shakes his head. "I didn't want you hurt."

Malroth lets out a noise of frustration. "We've fought monsters before! How is it any different?!"

It was a large pig-like monster thrusting its weapon like a-

"I-... I panicked," he admits, rubbing his hand. "It reminded me. Of something. I thought you would-..."

"Would what?"

"... I was dumb." He crosses his arms. "Let's leave it at that."

Malroth gives him one long stare and sighs. "Don't be so dumb next time," he demands. "Leave the heavy hitting to me, you don't have to go all hero."

He laughs. "I'll try."

* * *

Crea learns to make shields and armor while he was recovering. 

She also upgrades her workstation to a separate shack. And given the mess of wood shavings, stone fragments, and other bits and bobs on the floor, he can see why she decided to move her work away from the bedroom (more of a flophouse now, really).

"It's not the best," she tells him as he holds up a wooden shield. "Stone, wood, and hide are the only things we have though so-" She shrugs. "Gotta make do."

He bites down the question of how much this costs. He's still not used to being given things without a price (a rupee, a favor, a trial, a quest, an order). 

"Sorry," he says instead. For bleeding on her, for making them go back, for making them worry.

She forces a laugh. "It was a wake-up call," she admits. "That our little adventures are dangerous."

He says nothing. She's not wrong, and if she decides to prefer staying at the farm and build, he wouldn't blame her.

"But," she continues, giving him her familiar dopey grin. "That just means I have to make better things for all of us! Next time we won't go unprepared!"

A weight is lifted off his chest. She doesn't want to leave.

(Is this a good thing? Shouldn't he encourage her to live safely?)

"Good luck making Malroth wear armor," he snorts. "He probably thinks his muscles are enough to deflect anything."

She giggles. "They're very defined."

(This is nice though.)

"He'll poke someone's eye out if he keeps walking around like that," he says in deadpan.

"But would that really be a bad thing?" She asks seriously.

(To have company as company instead of solitude.)

He hums. "No." Definitely not. "I could throw a rock on the dinner rolls he calls his abs and it'd probably bounce off."

She laughs, guffaws really. Holding on her workbench so she won't fall over.

(He hopes this lasts.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay? Nay? Meh?
> 
> I've been thinking on what can Link bring to the dynamic. Malroth's the fighter and helps the builder gather raw materials, the builder builds, so what's left then? I thought maybe he'd be in the middle area-ish, he's a better fighter than the builder (but not as strong as Malroth) and can craft things (better than the NPCs but not as skilled as the builder). And he can also be a more thorough gatherer than both of them due to his (hoarding) experiences. 
> 
> That's how I thought of it as I was writing this lmao.


	3. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crea learns new recipes, Malroth learns more human things, and Link learns how to be in a party.
> 
> Dreams are remembered and made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me one whole day and my butt felt numb after I finished it. Writing was never my strongest point and it takes me way too long to finish a chapter, so I've been figuring out ways to stop my writer's block. So if my style seems inconsistent, that's me experimenting lmao.
> 
> No beta, I power through enemies like Malroth.

He’s dozing off under the shade of a palm tree. Next to him, she’s plucking on her lyre, humming softly.

It’s calming. 

Here, he is just a boy they found washed up shore. A new playmate for the kids, a helping hand for the eldery, another customer for the vendors, a fighter for when the monsters become aggressive.

He is not the hero. There are no mentions of destinies, of rumors turned tall tales about his quests, of people searching for him (because surely the hero could help, would help, has to help).

Here, he can just be a friend who likes taking naps.

He tells her stories about his adventures. Not everything. Not about helping a princess trapped in her own kingdom’s dungeon, not about the dark world he went to, not about the magic and curses.

He tells her the more mundane things. What Labrynna is like, what Subrosians looked like, what festivals are celebrated in Hyrule. Things that make her eyes widen and sparkle in delight, things that make him feel warmth and fondness as he remembers the good memories (the reasons he fought and fought and fought).

She wishes she could have seen what he’s seen.

He tells her he’ll bring her there someday.

* * *

Malroth asks if he’s ever had a dream.

It’s during one of their spars, when Crea is busy doing building and Link has exhausted all his building skills (which is less skills and more baby tasks Crea has deemed simple enough for him), that Malroth wonders about dreams.

“Does it bother you?” Link asks.

“Huh?”

“That you don’t have a dream.” Not like Rosie’s, or the farmers, or even Crea’s (she’s never told them, but it’s obvious in her dopey grin that she’s living her dream).

“No.”

Link sheaths his sword and gives him a look.

“... It’s just weird.” Malroth crosses his arms. “That they’re all so hung up about the smallest things for this dream. They all cried about dirt!”

He’d cry about dirt too if it didn’t look like gelatinous rotten meat. “It’s something they want.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s something they really want?”

Now it’s Malroth’s turn to give him a look.

“Imagine-” He’s been explaining a lot of things lately. Goddess help him, usually it’s the other way around. “-wanting something, or-” He gestures wildly. “-wanting to become… something. So badly. That to lose it just-”

_She smiles and tells him she’ll take his word for it._

“Hurts,” he finishes. “Losing the dream hurts.”

They both look at the farm. The tiny huts that Crea is upgrading to homey little cottages, the vegetable patches that have grown to actual fields, the villagers that don’t look like walking skin and bones.

“What would’ve happened if we didn’t come here?” Malroth asks. 

Rosie would have been monkey food for the monkey monsters. And her dream would end there, because he doubts Bonanzo and Perry would’ve continued with the farm. Not without someone who was stubborn enough to keep going.

Furrowfield would go about its miserable existence. No farm, no farmers, no Deitree.

No matter how good a dream can be, it can be taken away.

“Who knows,” he says instead.

* * *

His teacher is unlike most of their leaders. 

She growls and threatens many monsters, even hitting them with her maces, but he knows she would never kill them. Not for asking questions, for poking and prodding the beliefs of their religion.

She tells him it’s a challenge, to defend her convictions and utterly destroy the doubts of others. To kill them is cheap, a shoddy way of destruction. 

“Quality over quantity,” she’d say. “Faithful followers are far better than fearful ones.”

She’s still terrifying, and he’s sure more than half of her group obey her because of that. He doesn’t tell her that though.

He does tell her his doubts, the heretical thoughts that creep into his mind whenever he goes to Furrowfield and sees the slowly dying Deitree.

The awe he feels when he sees the colossal tree, that it was still beautiful despite its rot. Someone built this long ago.

He tells him his want to try and plant things, to see them grow, to see if a monster like himself could.

And his teacher, his mentor for as long as he could remember, looks at him and says.

“Do as you wish.” He remembers his heart pounding so hard he was sure it would burst out (and his teacher would have whacked it and scolded him for the mess). “You’re not a wide-eyed apprentice anymore.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Hmph, I’m not fragile like those fight-frenzied fools in Moonbrooke,” she sniffs. “Growing a cabbage doesn’t make you less of a Child of Hargon. It’s your life, it’s your choice, it’s your fate. Nobody, not even god, can take that away from you.”

* * *

“It’s bizarre,” Crea says, lying on her straw bed. “The more I talk to the villagers, the less things make sense.”

“The Children of Hargon thing?” Link asks, removing his cap.

“That and, the whole people, it’s like I’m in a fallen timeline.” She chews her lip. “Where the Scions lost, where the line of Erdrick wasn’t enough.”

“Hargon’s still dead though.” Malroth frowns, sitting on his bed cross-legged. “The pastor’s clear about that. So how are there still followers when their leader is gone? And followers strong enough to take over an island?”

“The dead can be resurrected,” Link says. “If you’re stubborn enough to do it.”

Crea shivers. “You say that like you’ve seen it before.”

He hums, thinking of Twinrova. Of how they killed themselves to revive Ganon. Of how there were still Ganon’s followers even after he’d destroy their master. 

To them, Ganon was their god. And they were willing to sacrifice their lives for him.

“It’s a possibility.” He lies on his bed, batting away Crea’s long hair from his side. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the Children’s dream, to revive their leader.” 

Or their god for that matter.

“I’d rather they have something like Rosie’s dream,” Malroth mutters. “At least that one gives you food.”

“Dreams depend on a person.” He closes his eyes. “What’s a dream for one may be a nightmare for another.”

* * *

She finds the cabbage when she’s five.

It’s the brightest plant she’s ever seen. The leaves are perky and lush, and were it not for the instilled fear of the Children, she would have ran towards it and plucked one up. 

It shines amidst the sea of dull browns.

She asks her sister what color the plant is.

She doesn’t believe her when she says it’s green.

Green is gross, it’s the moss that covers the stinky soil and the mushy leaves that shrivel and fall off trees. It’s the mucus and slime of the mauluscs that never leave them alone, even late at night. It’s mold that creeps in the little food they can scavenge. It’s rot and sickness and death.

Her sister gives her a tired smile, bends down, and whispers so softly in her ear she would have thought it was just the wind.

She tells her an impossible thing.

It makes her think.

What would her home be like, covered in the green that wasn’t green?

* * *

“What’re you making?” Malroth asks.

“A wooden toilet,” Crea answers, carving out the wood bit by bit. “I know people are getting tired of going to trees to do their business.”

“It would definitely improve the smell.” And the flashing. “Wouldn’t a pot work too? That looks time-consuming.”

“Only because I’m still figuring out how to make it.” She grins and gives him a thumbs up. “Once I do, I can experiment on the runes and spells needed to make it faster!”

So that’s how she makes her recipes. “Why not make a pot as a temporary one while you figure it out? I’m sure everyone would understand.”

"Remember when I made a pot room so that we could pickle some crops and Link walked in?"

He does, he thinks of the possibility of a repeat when Crea builds the toilet room. He wrinkles his nose. "Ew."

"Yep," she says with a pop. "So, no pot-shaped toilets, at all."

"Maybe he'd learn not to smash pots if there were." Malroth snorts. "Can you imagine?"

She throws a bunch of wood shavings at him. "I am and it's horrible."

* * *

They ask if she could reconsider her choice, there’s hardly any reward in doing (in their eyes) common folk work. They tell her she should choose a better job.

She doesn’t.

* * *

Bonanzo tells her it’s futile, Perry asks her to be more cautious. The rest of the farmers avoid her like the plague.

They all tell her to stop.

She doesn’t.

* * *

“I just need some grass seeds and night soil to make worm food,” Crea says, looking at her book. “The night soil is no problem, I’ll get some when we get back.”

Link stares at her. “Crea,” he says slowly. “It’s okay to call it p-”

“Anyways, I heard we can get more grass seeds further from the swamp!” She exclaims, closing her book. She marches forward, hooking her arm around Malroth’s (who was snickering) and drags him away. “To grass seeds!”

“It’s not night soil, it’s p-” 

“Grass seeds!” She repeats louder.

“You’re choosing the coward’s path!” Link calls out, jogging to keep up with them.

Malroth laughs harder.

* * *

He’s scared.

When Rosie starts spewing ideas, heretical and familiar ideas. Like her grandparents, her parents, and her sister. He starts remembering.

He remembers the days when the Children took them for reeducation and they never came back (the days the pastor wasn’t there, when the monsters destroyed the people instead of their creations).

Rosie is the only one left in her family.

He follows her to the old ruins of what was once the main farm, the trading hub of Furrowfield. He goes with her plans, more for indulging her than truly believing she can do it.

The soil is rotten, the water is dirty, and seeds are rare in a land where even weeds can’t thrive.

He hopes that she’ll see the futility of her dream.

Then one day, she shows him a head of cabbage. Eyes sparkling with pride and a silly wide grin on her face.

She shoves the tiny crop on his hands. It’s green and lush and smells nothing like the stale and moldy air in the land.

He feels fear.

(He feels hope.)

* * *

“Wouldn’t it be funny if we put one of these on the toilet?” Link asks, looking at the muddy hands with far too much interest to be necessary.

“No,” Crea replies immediately, dodging an incoming hand attack and countering with a stab.

“Then there could be a sign that asks for toilet paper,” he continues.

“Do we have toilet paper?” Malroth asks, slicing a muddy hand with his axe. “Or any paper at all?”

“I don’t have the tools for making paper, so no.”

“It can ask for towels instead,” he suggests.

“Ooh, right!”

“Both of you are horrible,” she declares, stabbing another muddy hand.

* * *

A voice tells him to be patient. That he’ll come back in his full glory soon, that he’ll be healed and become far stronger than before. He just needs to wait.

He doesn’t.

* * *

His uncle tells him to stay inside and go back to sleep.

He doesn’t.

* * *

Link takes all of the fallen bodkins’ weapons.

“You know how to shoot?” Crea asks. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have made you a bow, those are too small!”

He laughs. “I know how to use a lot of weapons,” he tells them. It was par for the course in his adventures. “I’m familiar with a sword, so I didn’t mind.”

Seeing him shoot, Malroth is inspired to make a combo attack, vibrating excitedly when he explains his idea.

“Think you can do it?” Malroth asks.

Link tilts his head. “They have to be pretty high up,” he says. 

“That’s not a no.”

He readies his bow and grins. “I’m up for it.”

Malroth dashes towards the bodkins, hitting them one by one with intense ferocity. The monsters cry out as they’re flung in the air, flailing and panicking.

Link shoots each of them before they fall.

Crea makes a note to make a bow for him, a really sturdy one. And arrows, lots of arrows.

* * *

The first thing she ever built was a doll. 

The body and head were pieces of paper she cut, the face was scribbled with ink she found in her father's study, and the clothes were more cut-out pieces of paper that she just folded over the doll.

She showed off her doll to her parents, they buy her another one three days later. Telling her if she wanted a new toy, she could have just asked.

She plays with the paper doll more than the bought one.

* * *

“That’s a solid spin attack, good job,” Link tells Crea. He looks at Malroth. “For someone with no memories, you’re good at teaching.”

“I’m touched,” Malroth tells him blandly.

“It’s slow compared to yours,” Crea sighs, sheathing her sword. “It takes forever for me to focus, and it’s not as strong too.”

He huffs. “I’ve done fighting-” Since he was ten. “-a lot longer than you. I’ve had practice, that’s all.”

“‘Sides, you’ve got building!” Malroth pats her. “Just leave the fighting to me!”

“And the exploring to me,” he pipes up.

Malroth glares at him. “The last time you lead, we had to fight a blue orc.”

“But it was worth it,” he says. “We have that magic leaf now, and I know you had fun fighting it.”

Crea thinks they’ll be using that leaf soon if Link keeps being so blasé about his well being.

“I had to carry you back to the farm,” Malroth points out. “Because you were bleeding all over the place.”

“I didn’t die, so it’s fine.”

“This is the third time.”

Link considers that statement. “I’ve died from worse,” he says, shrugging.

“I’m going to hit you,” Malroth states amiably, his smile promising death. “Really hard.”

“You’ll be the one carrying him back to the farm if you do,” Crea warns.

* * *

Many artisans see a builder as a lukewarm craftsman, going so far as to call them glorified construction workers.

Good enough to bake a cake, but not as delicious as a pastry chef’s.

Good enough to make a chair, but not as strong as a carpenter’s.

Good enough to design blueprints, but not as intricate as an architect’s.

Good enough, just good enough.

Never better.

A master of none.

“But,” the few old builders she’s met said. The ones who had lived in a time when the Children of Hargon were rampant, when the greatest defiance the builders did was to fix the destruction they wrought. “Better than just a master of one.”

Not all of their scars were from honing their craft.

* * *

Cabbages, wheat, tomatoes, melons, sugar canes, and pumpkins. Fields of crops that look so much better than what she dreamed.

“Green but not green,” she whispers. “I’m getting there, we’re getting there.”

They’re at the point where food is barely a problem, unless having too much of it is considered one. They’re at the point where they have to expand the town walls to make room for more fields. 

They’re at the point where she can’t call this a garden anymore, it’s too big to be one. It’s the greenest farm in all of Furrowfield.

And tonight they’re having a festival (an actual festival, like in the old stories!) to celebrate all the work they’ve done.

“Am I dreaming? This feels too good to be true,” she sniffles, wiping her eyes.

“Most dreams are,” a voice says.

She squeaks and turns, finding the pastor behind her. “Pastor Al! Are you helping with decorating too?”

“No.” He laughs. “I’m sure the totem trio can handle it.”

“Totem trio?”

He points to where the builder’s bell is and Rosie witnesses the peculiar sight of Crea sitting on Link’s shoulders, who was sitting on Malroth’s shoulders.

“Can you move a little bit to the left, Mal?” Crea asks, holding up a long string of bunting.

“Oh, dear.” She blinks, watching Malroth sidestep to the left. “Is that safe?”

Crea stands up and hangs the bunting on the two-storey flophouse she built, going so far as to tiptoe. Link holds onto her ankles firmly.

“I doubt they have that word in their vocabulary,” he replies.

“Shouldn’t we…?”

“They’ve survived worse than a fall.” Pastor Al waves off. “They’ll be fine.”

“I guess.” She turns back to the fields. “I never thanked you.”

“You’re a clever girl, I’m sure you would have figured out the art of agriculture without me.”

“Well, no,” she giggles. “Thank you for that, but that’s not what I was talking about.”

“Oh?”

“Thank you for planting cabbage.”

If the magus didn’t have a mask, she swears she would have seen him blinking.

“Pardon?” He asks.

“They were very green, like your cape,” she tells him, and, oh, that’s a nice name isn’t it? Magus cape green. A lot shorter than green that isn’t green.

“... You’re welcome,” he says. 

She doubts he knows what she’s talking about, but that’s fine. 

“Lillian’s trying her hand on making her own recipes, a soup using all the pumpkin flesh that was carved out from the lanterns,” she says, looking back at the fields. “Link’s been encouraging her to experiment.”

“Yes, that boy has that effect on people, doesn’t he?” He comments. “Inspiring courage, almost like a _hero_ in that way.”

“Is that bad?” She asks, hearing the sneer in his voice. “We have a builder, would having a hero change anything?”

“Heroes are ruthless hypocrites,” Pastor Al says. “They destroy while abhorring destruction at the same time. Killing monsters regardless if they’re neutral or not.”

He knows the story, a secret only the higher-ups know, he knows because his mentor told him. The three heroes, the “Scions of Erdrick” as Crea called them.

He grips his staff tightly. A builder is a threat to their beliefs, a hero is a threat to their lives. And if he had to choose a lesser evil, it would be the builder.

“Link isn’t like that,” she says softly. 

Not to her, she’s human. Heroes protect humans and destroy monsters.

She didn’t see the way that boy looked at him the first time they met. The eyes roaming on each part of his body, cold and calculative, like he was finding the best place to hit. She didn’t feel the stares boring holes on his back.

“He’s nice to Wrigley and Crea says he always brings extra food in case they encounter any fat rats who are hungry,” she insists. 

“Perhaps.” He was dangerous regardless.

“Try talking to him,” she suggests. “The festival’s a good opportunity!”

Honestly, this girl. “I don’t need to be friends with everyone, Rosie.”

“But it’s so much better if you are, right?”

* * *

He doesn’t have a definite wish when he touches the Triforce. Only images, strips of memories he wants to relive, a feeling of desperation.

He dreams of a home he can come back to and feel safe.

The closest the Triforce can give him is to purify the land from darkness.

His uncle’s house is still empty when he comes back.

* * *

Link commends Perry for being brave enough to shove a pumpkin on Malroth’s head _and_ replace his axe for a hoe when he was busy trying to take it out.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get his club too,” he says.

Perry shivers. “I got o’ bit of courage, Mr. Link, but I en’t suicidal!”

“I can still hear you!” Malroth shouts. 

Perry yelps and runs away.

He chuckles. 

“Stop laughing and get me out of this pumpkin!”

He gives him wide guileless eyes. “But it’s tradition to wear it.”

“This festival was literally made today!”

“Literally!” Brittney calls out, swinging her hoe. “That pumpkin suits your whole aesthetic, I’m into it!”

“I don’t know what that means!”

“It’s orange like your pants,” Link explains.

Malroth raises his arms, growling in frustration. “That still means nothing!” He sees Crea coming out from her workshop. “Crea, help me get this out!” If there was a whine in his voice, he’d deny it vehemently.

Crea laughs. “Everyone’s wearing a pumpkin, it’s just for tonight!”

Never has Link seen a pumpkin look so betrayed.

* * *

Tonight is the happiest night in Furrowfield.

Delicious stew in hollowed out pumpkins is served and eaten. Games, both Cantlin and Hyrule inspired, are played. Music is more like a chorus of caterwauling cats, merry but not exactly marvelous. 

Laughter fills the air.

Crea pulls both of the boys to the plaza, trying to teach them a traditional Cantlin dance. It’s hard with the pumpkin heads in the way, but it’s fun. Link gives up and does the dance he did with Din the first time they met.

Malroth says he looks like an awkward crab.

An eating contest happens midway the festival, with Brittney and Perry in the lead. Bonanzo lies on a crumpled heap with the rest of the fallen contestants, stuffed full with pumpkin stew and bread.

A ghost appears and asks if they can join the festivities. It’s a testament to the no screaming rule that all the villagers do is throw their food in surprise.

Crea isn’t sure if that’s an improvement, Link thinks it’s a better defense than screaming, and Malroth finds it hilarious.

The ghost is unperturbed, the food projectiles go through him.

The festival continues.

They party, they sing, they dance. They make merry while the night is young, and when it is late they remove their pumpkin heads, tell everyone a good night, and go to sleep.

The villagers wonder why they denounced creation in the first place.

They think of the seeds they’ll plant tomorrow. They think of the delicious meals they’ll eat from the crops they painstakingly tended to and harvested. They wonder what surprises their builder will create this time.

They dream good dreams until morning comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, nay, or meh?


End file.
